


Star-Crossed Lovers (You & I)

by NoHolds



Series: Shadows in the River Fog [5]
Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Low Chaos, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Pre-Dishonored (Video Game), The Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:50:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7052383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoHolds/pseuds/NoHolds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jessamine falls in love with Corvo Attano alarmingly quickly, all things considered. They meet on a white beach on Serkonos, young and hopeful, and proceed to grow up together, dragging Dunwall inch by protesting inch into the future.</p><p>Then the plague hits, and the whalers come, and Jessamine is rather abruptly dethroned. Not yet ready to abandon her city, Jessamine allows the Outsider to turn her into a tool that might yet help wrest back the throne; the heart, a thing of black magic and undeath.</p><p>Dunwall, after all, needs its empress.</p><p>[Jessamine Kaldwin, pre-to-post Dishonored 1]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time you see Corvo Attano, you are young, and he is younger.

You, growing into your body and your kingdom at the same time. Him with long, dark-messy hair and a smile that flashes the gap in his teeth.

_Choose a Lord Protector,_ they'd said, and you choose this scrawny Serkonos boy with every bone in your body, without quite knowing why.

It raises quite the fuss back in Dunwall, that you've chosen some foreign teenager for the role, but you don't care. They can make you wear starch-collared shirts and play nice with dignitaries, but you are a teenager, too.

You can afford yourself a little rebellion.

* * *

It goes like this:

Corvo is presented to you as an oddity, an exotic assassin from hot Serkonos, a boy with dark-wavy hair and darker eyes, young and deadly, gifted to you like a well-bred horse might be.

Your captain of the guard tuts, over this, at the strange ways of the Serkonians, and you are suddenly, vibrantly determined to like this beanpole of a boy.

“So what can you do?” You ask, and Corvo tilts his head to one side, a little, like one of the shiny-feathered grackles that roost outside your window.

“What would her majesty like to see?” He has the faintest accent- it curls the edges of his words in, like seasalt on parchment.

“Whatever's your favorite to show off,” you say, without thinking, and the grumble your guard-captain gives is worth it for Corvo's bright, cheek-splitting smile.

In an instant he has all but vanished. You cast about for him in the nearby shadows, but-

a cheery whistle sounds from somewhere above you, and there Corvo is, bare feet swinging in the sun, flashing you a cheeky smile.

“The boy's half monkey,” your guard captain grumbles, and you beam.

“I _like_ him.”

* * *

The whole of your stay in Serkonos is dull, but for Corvo.

There are endless dignitaries to shake hands with, to tell you “congratulations” on becoming Empress, as if you'd had to work so hard at it, as sole heir to the throne.

The monotony is broken only by him. Only by Corvo, still growing into his limbs, the only person your age you've gotten to talk to in what feels like _forever._

The dignitaries show you Serkonos's baronies and courthouses, its marble and polish.

Corvo shows you the rest.

He sneaks you from your room each night, helping you out through the low wide window and into the humid Serkonos night, laughing his wildman laugh.

You laugh along, running barefoot beside him down cobbled streets, your feet slap-slapping against the stone in offbeat rhythm with his, your carefree laughter gusting away on the seabreeze.

Corvo shows you- he shows you _everything._

The riot of colours and smells and sounds that make up the Serkonos fish markets, this tapestry of sensation that has you itching to taste-see-hear-touch it _all._

He shows you the wharves, full of stoop-backed sailors, their fingers rough with scar and callous.

He buys you fish fresh out of the sea, battered and fried while you watch, dripping grease and smelling fit to make you drool.

You eat the fish with your feet dangling in the ocean, pants rolled up, saltbreeze in your hair.

Corvo grins over at you with juice dripping down his chin and fish grease on his fingers and you want, abruptly, to run away with him.

But you cannot, because-

He shows you the poor, the desperate, all those who slipped through the cracks, crowding the streets your official guides steered you gently away from.

Corvo shows you down streets of beggars and pick-pockets and forgotten people, and does not react except to walk a little faster.

When you ask your host the next day, about all the desperate scraping by on his streets, he at first looks uneasy, then tells you that it is simply How Things Are, like he is not one of the few who can actually change things.

You vow, there, in the vast marble halls of a Serkonos brewery, your shiny-black shoes scuffed from the cobbles, to be the sort of empress who changes what needs to be changed. The sort who does not allow handlers and advisors to steer you away from the truth.

You will go to your people- _all_ of your people, and you will ask them what they need, and you will _give_ it to them.

You tell Corvo this, one night, breathless with excitement, with the _thrill_ of it, with knowing for once what being the empress means- what you _want_ it to mean.

Corvo gives you a serious look, one you will grow familiar with, his dark eyes bottomless under the stars. “Your royal bodyguard better be good at their job,” he says, eventually. It is the first time you see him half so solemn, and you remember with a start that he is not just a teenager with a gap-toothed smile and pretty cheekbones.

He is a a spy, of some sort, or an assassin, who can vanish into the shadows and scale buildings and, presumably, kill.

That is where the idea begins to grow.

* * *

On the night before you leave for Dunwall, Corvo takes you for a walk along the pier.

You sit, together, on an old dock, long-abandoned, the wood starting to rot back into the water. The sky is clear and wide overhead, the bright uncountable stars shivering up at you from all directions; from the velvet-black of the sky, from the mirror-calm of the oceans, from the pinpoint reflections in the dark of Corvo's eyes.

“I'll miss you,” he says, in that birdsong voice of his.

You have been trying to work up the courage to hold his hand all night. You inch a pinky closer;“I'll miss you too,” you say. Corvo shifts, maybe unconsciously, and the warm of his hand presses up against yours.

Your heart might burst out of your chest. You wonder if Corvo can hear it, beating nervous-quick behind your ribs. “I'll write,” you manage to say, and link your pinky with his, pretending nothing unusual is happening.

“I'll write back,” Corvo says, mouth slanting sideways into a crooked smile. His pinky tightens around yours.

Your sit there, for a while, fingers interlocked, then huff, shoving yourself upright. “You wanna keep walking?” Your pinky comes unlinked from Corvo's, but you offer a hand to pull him up, and he keeps hold of it once he's standing.

“Sure,” he says. His smile is so _bright_ in the tan of his face, his hand warm in yours.

You feel like you have gotten away with some great heist.

Corvo leads you down to the beach, hand still linked with yours (and if your palms are sweaty with the summer heat, you don't much mind).

“Come with me,” you say, abruptly, as Corvo goes to kick at the surf. He stops dead, turns to you with his head cocked sideways.

“To Dunwall,” you clarify. “If- you want.”

He blinks. Your hands sweat. Your heart crawls nervous into your throat, and you maybe wish you had never spoken in your life.

“I-” Corvo frowns. “I don't think they would like me to come along.”

“I'm the empress,” you remind him, “So they'd have to. But I don't want you to just- come along.”

Corvo waits, the both of you ankle-deep in the low tide, hands still linked.

You realize, suddenly, how _close_ you are standing to him, how you could count each of his faint sun-freckles, if you wanted.

“I'm offering you a job,” you say. Straighten with every inch of your growing spine. “Corvo Attano, would you be my Lord Protector?”

As if on instinct, he drops to one knee, head bowed. Your hand falls back to your side, unheld.

“I-” Corvo looks up at you, lower lip caught in his teeth. “Are you sure?”

You nod, suddenly incapable of speech.

“Then I-” He clears his throat. “I would be honored. My lady.”

The words sound strange and stiff in his mouth, and you giggle, helplessly. Corvo looks up, brows low, but you just laugh again, overwhelmed with-

with him, coming with you, with the good news of it- soon Corvo is smiling, too, and he reaches a hand to be pulled upright.

You take it still grinning, and Corvo instead tugs you down into the surf with him.

This starts you laughing, again, the warm ocean water soaking through your shirt, and Corvo laughs along, the both of you swept up in the bright, coming future.

Flush with sea air, with the good news, you dart forward and peck Corvo on the cheek, feeling bold.

He ducks his head, cheeks pink, and reaches out to take your hand again.

“I think,” you say, cheeks aching, “That this is going to work out _wonderfully._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are again with another Dishonored fic! (you do not have to read the other works in the series to read this one) This fic is all written, so expect an update every day or so. 
> 
> & for those of you waiting on a We'll Make it On The Run update, it's coming! Just, maybe, after finals, because I am currently dying of finals. 
> 
> Con/Crit welcome, as always, and thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Your captain of the guard is not happy with your choice of Lord Protector.

Your advisors aren't happy with Corvo, either.

In fact, pretty much everyone has a diplomatically-acceptable sneer for you when you make the announcement.

Everyone except, of course, for Corvo himself. On the boat back to Dunwall, he stands at the prow of the ship, basking in the wind and sea-spray.

Or else he clambers up the netting to watch the horizon,

or sneaks into the cargo hold to filch snacks, claiming in his solemn, earnest way that he's “scouting for stowaways,” when he's caught.

But, whatever he's doing, when you find him, he turns and flashes you this wide, bright smile, hair wild from the ocean wind, and that uninhibited grin, those salt-stained clothes-

You think you will always want to run away with Corvo, at least a little bit. To take his hand and go wherever the wind will take you.

And that, maybe, makes all the scowls worth it, a hundred times over.

* * *

Dunwall is gray and cool as you remember, and you take a deep breath of foggy air and think, _home._

Corvo looks uncertain, stepping off the boat, your seashore boy.

Your city is cold and damp, where Serkonos is hot and dry, and for the first time you feel like you might be making a mistake.

This impression does not change when you get to the palace, where Corvo is small and ragged amoung the well-pressed aristocrats, who scowl down their powdered noses at him.

But you move to stand beside him, shoulders squared, and he straightens, too, and the eyes of the court slip politely away. They may not approve of Corvo Attano, but you are the empress, and they cannot openly disapprove of you. You will manage.

* * *

After a few strange weeks of settling in, though, Corvo adjusts to the city beautifully.

He is fitted for a long, fine coat to keep off the city's chill, and given a sharp-deadly sword by the (scowling) captain of the guard.

With his hair tied back and a sword at his hip, with a neat coat and the tropical tan leeching out of him, the members of your court don't _murmur_ so much, anymore.

You realize for the first time how much they _disdain_ everyone somehow other from themselves, do your advisors, your dukes and duchesses.

And you have not forgotten what you said and saw on Serkonos; you draft a survey- a census- to ask the people of Dunwall what they need. It will be the first census of its kind-

anywhere, as far as you know. You tell Corvo about it and he grins over at you, then says,

“most of the poor on Serkonos couldn't read. Is it different here?”

That stops you up, short- how to do the census, then?

But Corvo curls next to you on your couch, feet tucked up against yours, says: “Maybe you could find someone to read it out?” He frowns, looking down at your rough-draft document.

You're starting to smile, again, getting swept up in it;“A ballot system,” you say, “Or they could dictate their answers-”

Corvo's eyes are bright and intent over your draft, now, and you feel this sudden, choking surge of affection for him- his quick words, his quick mind, all of the _light_ in him.

You take up your quill, again, and bend over the draft together, working long into the night, heads nearly touching as you squint down to see in the dark, ink smudging up over your hands.

* * *

The survey is finally finished and funded a year later.

You are nineteen. Corvo is seventeen. The royal treasurer has come to resent you both, for the endless inquiries after this stockpile and that expense, and the day the census starts you are so tired.

It has been a _long_ year of battering yourself against your advisors, your beleaguered treasurer, the tut-tutting aristocrats.

As the first surveyors head out into the city, you sit on your balcony with Corvo, watching the river.

The night is cool, and the air smells of seaweed, of rain, of fog.

You are warm, nearly hot, having shared a little too much champagne with Corvo, and now you sit tucked toe-to-shoulder against his fever-hot side.

“We did it,” you say, and his answering _hmm_ rumbles through his chest into yours.

He's gotten so _quiet,_ over the last year.

After a moment, he bends to kiss the top of your head, and you turn towards him, catch the next kiss clumsy on the corner of your mouth.

Corvo blushes, a little, at the messy kiss, but you smile, and tilt your head, and the next kiss does not miss at all.

The lights of Dunwall are so _beautiful,_ tonight, gold and jewel-bright across the black-glass of the river, and Corvo is warm and vital in your arms, and you want to catch a boat with him, sail upriver and never return. Just the two of you.

But now, maybe more than ever- Dunwall is your city. And there is so much to stay for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one this time, sorry! New chapter tomorrow!  
> Con-Crit welcome as always, & have a great day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Whoops, looks like I only uploaded half of the last portion of this chapter.

Over the next six months, two things happen:

1\. The survey results trickle in. Your people want food, shelter, education, a minimum wage (one noble had requested, pointedly, 'an end to frivolous spending on trumped-up multiple choice quizzes').

2\. Corvo fills in. Stubble starts biting at his jaw. His reedy limbs cord thick with muscle. He is still smaller than you, and slender, but sturdy. Strong.

Less a boy than the Corvo you met on Serkonos's docks, near two years past.

* * *

You attend a ball, held in celebration of- something. It doesn't matter. There doesn't need to be a reason. It is just a party.

The wine is rich and good and expensive.

Gold shines from every throat, every finger, every candelabra.

There is so much food the guests cannot possibly eat it all, even those guests who, unlike you, do not have their stomachs tied up with nerves over the increasingly-hostile battlefield of aristocratic society.

Later that night, safe in your room with the door locked, the unsettle in your gut resolves itself to steel.

Corvo is sprawled on your loveseat, his stiff formal shirt unbuttoned at the collar, one of his boots kicked off.

“I think,” you say, slowly, “That Dunwall should impose heavier taxes on the aristocracy. Then our dear treasurer could stop tearing his hair out over the census.”

Corvo tilts his head to the side, for a moment, considering, then looks over at you with his steady eyes. “Tax the wealthy _more?_ They already rail against the pittance you have them paying now.”

“Yes,” you say. “Is that a _bad_ idea?”

“Corvo laughs. “No,” he reaches for your hand, to brush lips across your knuckles. “You do seem to be doing your best to make my job more difficult, however.”

You laugh, too. “I suppose they won't be too happy with me, will they? Do you truly think they'll send assassins?”

Corvo smiles, eyes sparkling with mirth. “If they send people after you,” he says with mock solemnity, “It means you are truly changing things.”

You laugh, the stress of the evening sloughing away, and pull Corvo up for a kiss.

* * *

The court titters at your taxation proposal.

When it becomes clear that you are serious about it, the titters turn into hissed conversations, to sudden silences as you walk past.

Corvo starts to tail you more closely, starts to watch who cooks your meals. Shadows grow purple and bruisey under his eyes.

The last of your baby fat melts away.

The aristocracy, for all that they push back against your proposal, can only delay you.

You are twenty when the bill goes through. Corvo is eighteen.

You sign the papers with a shaky hand, spattering ink across your signature. Corvo watches you steady from his place at the door, his eyes a warm weight on your back.

* * *

A handful of weeks later, a local paper runs a cartoon of you squatting, dragonlike, upon a pile of gold, snorting fire from your nose and saying “We all must give for our country.”

Corvo's eyes go perfectly flat and cold when he sees it, but you cut it out, pin it above your desk. The cheap paper tears, a little, under your shaky hands.

“If they send people after you,” you say, defiance hot in your throat, “It means you're changing things.”

Surprise flickers over Corvo's narrow face, his eyes widening a fraction so he looks, for a moment, as young as he is.

“I love you,” he says, in a rush, like the words are a shock to him.

  
You cannot say anything, for a moment, feel as perfectly blank and still as a pond on a cloudless day.

They you see Corvo's startled eyes tighten, his nails digging nervous into his palms, and your breath returns to you.

“I love you too,” you say, “Of _course,_ I love you too.”

And Corvo's mouth draws up into a nervous smile, bright and crooked, his jaw raggedy with stubble.

There are butterflies in your stomach, the feeling at once young and alien, and it strikes you, abruptly, that you are not a child anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, forgot to update yesterday. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy this slightly belated chapter! Con/Crit welcome as always!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like I fucked up uploading the last chapter, and only uploaded about half of the last segment. It's been fixed now, sorry about that!

A month later, a man tries to slit your throat as you read the newspaper.

You are eating breakfast, tea going cold and forgotten, crumbs scattered over your plate.

Then there is a _crunch,_ and you look up, and a man in black leather is standing in the doorway, your handmaiden dead at his feet, her neck twisted crooked and wrong.

It is as if time stops.

Your life does not flash before your eyes, but everything goes- clearer, somehow.

The assassin takes a step towards you. Static buzzes in your ears, drowning out all other sound.

You notice, inanely, the jam smeared over the edge of your breakfast plate. The last of the steam curling from your barely-warm tea. The ink stained under your fingernails.

The assassin takes another step forwards. His sword is drawn, blade bright-silver, flashing in the morning sun like teeth bared from the shadows.

You cannot die. There is too much left to do. Dunwall needs you, it needs-

the assassin reels back, mouth working soundlessly. There is something red and wet sticking through his chest- a sword, crimson and gleaming.

The body slumps over, dead weight, and there's Corvo, looking grim and a little green around the eyes, his sword dripping blood onto the hardwood.

The world snaps back into focus, and Corvo has dropped his sword, is rushing for you with shaking hands.

You realize you've staggered upright, to stare at the body.

You are shaking all over, suddenly, hair raised across the back of your neck.

“You're okay,” Corvo is saying, voice low and steady. “You're okay.”

You reach for him, blindly, with your trembling hands, and he wraps his arms around you tight.

He is shaking, too, breath uneven and shallow. You press a tearful kiss to his mouth, hands fisted in the back of his coat. _I'm alive,_ you think, _we're alive,_ and Corvo kisses you back, desperate, tasting of copper.

You stumble back to your room, together, leaning on one another like a pair of old drunks.

Your room where the door locks, where you are safe, where men do not try to murder you over your half-finished toast.

Emily is conceived, there, on your unmade bed, the morning sun washing gold through your windows.

 _I'm alive,_ you think, _we're alive._

* * *

A handful of weeks later, you are sick every day for ten days in a row, nauseous and shakey.

Corvo finds you one morning, retching in the bathroom. He does not speak, just meets your eyes steady and knowing.

You take a traveling nobleman to your room, the next day, flirt, get him passing-out drunk and let him think what he wants to think.

When you start to show, the court titters with rumors about the noble, long since returned to his homeland.

Corvo presses a hand against your stomach, questioning, and you say, “It's yours.”

You do not know what you see in Corvo's eyes- tears, maybe? Joy? Whatever it is, after a moment, he draws you into his arms, pressing his cheek against yours.

His is shaking, again, like the day of the assassination.

You wrap your arms across his shoulders, and wonder what sort of world this is, to raise a child in.

* * *

Emily is born red and squalling into the world, small and fragile, her tiny face screwed up wet and crying.

You are twenty-one. Corvo is nineteen.

When you pass your new daughter into Corvo's rough hands, Corvo freezes stiff.

You have seen him scale buildings without a blink, seen him fight three-on-one in the practice yards. He looks very scared, with young Emily in his arms. His wide dark eyes find yours, and he looks for all the world like a startled animal. Like any second he might bolt for the door.

Like a boy again, sixteen, ankle-deep in Serkonos surf, the whole frightening future on the horizon.

 


	5. Chapter 5

There is a party hosted for your daughter's birth- an heir to the throne, at last.

It should be a happy occasion, but you sit down for dinner with young Emily in your lap and feel as though you are sitting down to dine with sharks.

Cold eyes watch you from all angles. The air is tense and sharp, the idle chatter muted.

The first school opened up in a lower district, earlier this week. Each brick was paid for with coin pried from the purses of the nobles around you.

They are all full of their little congratulations, of course, but you can feel the scorn in the room. Each of these people would more happily shove you off a balcony then pay for one drop of paint more.

The soup is bland and gritty, the wine bitter dregs. Your host tut-tuts and says, pointedly, “Who has the the money to import fine foods, anymore?”

It is all show, you're sure. Her diamond necklace alone could finance half a schoolhouse.

You smile back, pleasantly, and say, “We all must give for our country.”

* * *

It is a rare, hot day in Dunwall, the sort that turns every citizen into lazy, reptilian things, sprawling with coats unbuttoned over the sun-baked cobbles.

Even Corvo has loosened his neckcloth, is sitting with eyes slitted near-closed in the palace gardens, sunbathing, snakelike.

You forget, sometimes, that he is a creature of the tropics. He was made for sun and sea-breeze, and You can see his hair going coppery with sun, already, shot through with iridescence.

In this, you think, Emily takes after him.

She _looks_ like you, thank the stars, there is no cause for rumor there.

But, one year old, staggering around the garden on chubby legs, she is her father's daughter.

She has sun-freckles scattered light over her round cheeks, and her dark eyes sparkle in the bright sun. When her unsteady knees give out, she flops onto her back and _basks,_ soaking up heat.

Corvo cracks an eye at the sound, and when he catches sight of his daughter his whole face goes sort of soft, a smile curling his mouth. “Hey, Emily.” He says, voice deep and smooth. She giggles at him, waving a stubby-fingered hand.

Corvo pushes to his feet, stretching lazily upward with a great popping of lazy joints. He swings Emily up onto his hip, bouncing her a little. “Hey,” he says, to you this time. His hair is coming out of its queue, strands hanging messy to his shoulders.

“Hi,” you say. “Enjoying the sun?”

He hums, contentedly, a tan starting to show across his cheeks.

There is no one around but Emily, and you, and him. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless turquoise colour. “I love you,” you say, overcome with it all of a sudden.

“I love you, too.” Corvo says, his eyes soft and fond. He is twenty, holding your now-dozing daughter easily in one arm.

Sometimes, it feels like you are living for these stolen moments, an hour snatched here and there for your strange family.

You cross the distance over to Corvo and tuck yourself into a hug and feel, for just a moment, as safe as you have ever been.

* * *

“She takes after you,” Corvo says, teasing mirth in his voice.

“She takes,” you say, crossly, “after her irritating father.”

Emily is 4. You have been- _trying_ to teach her to read, to at least learn some of Dunwall's history. But as much as she _acts_ like she knows, Emily seems to despise actually _learning._

Learning “boring book stuff”, anyway.

“Hey,” Corvo crosses to you, puts a warm hand on your tense shoulder. “Hey, I'll take her for a while, okay?”

You force yourself to relax, nod. “Thank you.”

Emily, face still red from a tantrum, just scowls.

* * *

Hours later, Corvo and Emily wander back in. Emily's stockings are torn, and dirty, her knee skinned bloody. She seems not to notice, declaring instead, triumphantly: “I learned about swords!”

Corvo grins at you, sheepish. “I took her down to the practice yard,” He says. “We were _going_ to learn about the guard, but-”

“I fought Corvo!” Emily crows, and you notice a stick in her hand. She brandishes it at you, sword-like.

“That you did,” Corvo says, swinging Emily into the air with a grunt. “Our little empress is going to be quite the warrior.”

“Don't encourage her.” you say, rolling your eyes, even as a smile pulls at your mouth.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Someone tries to kidnap Emily a few months later. You wake up in the night to the sound of shattering glass, the clatter of clumsy night-blind feet, the earsplitting wailing of your daughter.

Corvo is up in an instant, sword drawn, and as your eyes clear you see three figures in heavy cloaks, masks pulled up over their mouths. One is frozen, arms outstretched towards Emily's small bed, eyes white and fearful on Corvo.

It is, for a moment, a strange tableau- frozen, theater-like: Corvo in his pajamas, sword drawn. One invader halfway through the window, one just inside, with a trembleing hand on her sword-hilt. The last is standing hunched, hawklike, over your daughter.

Then, as if on cue, everything explodes into fearful, frantic action, loud and desperate.

Corvo _throws_ his sword at the attacker looming over Emily, and the man crumples over with a wet _gurgle,_ blood washing down over his chin.

Emily's crying takes on the edge of a scream, her round face red and damp with tears.

The attacker in the window is still frozen, indecisive, but the woman in the room is creeping for the now-unarmed Corvo, her bare blade gleaming cruelly. She pays no attention to you, taking a swipe at Corvo that he barely- barely- dodges.

Your lungs unfreeze, and you snatch the unlit candlestick from your bedside table- heavy, solid iron- and bring it crashing over the attacker's head. She crumples, boneless, like a marionette with cut strings. The attacker in the window moves to leave completely, his path decided. Through the fog in your mind you see his eyes flashing fearfully in the dark.

Corvo sees it too, grabs the guy by the back of his coat and hauls him inside, shoves him roughly to his knees. “Who sent you?” Corvo demands, voice rough.

Emily pauses for breath, hicupping, and Corvo stops, breath harsh in the otherwise-quiet night. He takes a deliberate, deep breath, tugs the attacker's sword away, knots his hands behind his back with his own neckcloth.

“Get Emily,” he says. “I'll go find the guard.”

You swing Emily, wailing again, into your arms and make absent-minded shooshing gestures with your hand. “I'm coming with you.”

When Corvo opens his mouth to argue, you lift a hand, preemptive. “No, I am not going to stay here while you go risk your life. There could be more of them in the hall.”

Corvo scowls but doesn't argue, holds the door for you on the way out of the room.

It turns out to have been an isolated attack- just those three people, aiming for stealth and missing badly.

Corvo delivers his captive into the arms of a guard, who raises an inquisitive eyebrow at the two of you.

You realize, abruptly, that you are still both in your pajamas, Corvo's bare skin filmed with sweat, your hair messily undone.

The guard just shoots Corvo a sly grin and takes the captive away, leaves you with ice creeping up your spine , a hiccupping four-year-old in your arms and bile rising in your throat.

* * *

So, of course, the gossip that springs out of the kidnapping attempt is: _“Did you hear? The Lord Protector, half undressed in the Empress's chambers.”_ and, _“Did you hear? The Empress was indecent herself. Both of them, in just their nightwear. I wonder how she's going to explain_ this?”

Corvo looks thunderous about it, a scowl pasted over his brow all week.

“Here,” you say, catching him after dinner one night, the both of you off to bed in separate rooms. “Do you- regret us?”

Corvo recoils, physically, scowl giving way to wide-eyed shock “No-” he clears his throat, voice high with surprise. “No, of course not, why-”

“Then what they're saying about us is true,” you say, “Right? So don't let it get to you.”

Corvo huffs out a frustrated breath. “How'd you get so brilliant, huh?”

You laugh. “Got some advice,” you dart eyes around the hallway- still empty- and take a step towards Corvo “From a smart man.”

Corvo's mouth twists up at one side. “And what advice was that?”

“Something like- if they come after you-”

“It means you're changing things.” Corvo's smile is a wholehearted thing, now, if the stress lines around his eyes don't quite fade.

You take another step towards Corvo, and he tilts towards you, reflexively, for a kiss-

but feet echo down the hall, shoes clicking on the polished tile.

Corvo backs up, scowling again, and says, voice even and professionally polite, “we must find out who sent them, of course, and with your leave, ma'am, I'll send an extra guard to your hall until we do catch them.”

“Thank you, mister Attano.” You nod, brusquely, as a maid bustles by, shoes click-clacking severely. “That will be all. Good evening.”

“Good evening, ma'am, he says, looking stricken, and you reach out to give his hand a brief squeeze before slipping away to your bedroom, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feat. equal-opportunity kidnapping attempts
> 
> Hope you're liking the fic so far! Con/Crit welcome, as always!


	7. Chapter 7

A stack of letters arrives in your room, a few days later, cheap paper, envelopes lacking any seal or identifier.

Corvo proposes you toss the lot into the fire. “We can't risk it,” he insists, voice rough with exhaustion.

“Can't risk _what,_ Corvo?” You snap. “Can't risk a cruel letter? What could possibly be dangerous in those?”

It had been a long, tiresome week, Corvo in the face of recent controversy daring to approach you only with concerns for your safety. You are perhaps tired, overtaxed, Emily keeping you up with nightmares when your paperwork does not bar you from sleep anyway, and Corvo's ceaseless mother-henning has begun to rankle.

“It could be poison-” he offers, “explosives,”

You sneer, at that, slice the twine that binds the stack of envelopes together. They spill out into a ragged fan over your desk, and you see a muscle jump in Corvo's jaw. Defiance is rising like bile in your throat. You reach for the first envelope.

“Jessamine,” Corvo says, low and warning, and you look him in the eyes are you tear the letter open.

There is a beat of tense silence.

Nothing happens. It is just a letter, after all.

The risk averted, Corvo lets out a long, irritated breath. “Let me know if you want your _Lord Protector_ to _protect_ you, Empress,” he snaps, and turns to storm out, the door slamming behind him.

Irritation still hot in your chest, you don't give him the dignity of watching him leave, rater turning back to your desk. The letters turn out to be from a class of children in one of the new public schools.

Their teacher had them write in to you, as an assignment, and each note is sweet and brief, composed in messy child's scratch.

The words, which might fill you with a vindictive pleasure at their excessive harmlessness, rather curdle in your stomach, sour and rotting.

* * *

Not all of your mail is so benign; while no envelopes contain poison dust or spring razors, you do receive letter packed with vitriol daily.

Not all are from the aristocracy- _most_ are, but not all.

Some of your correspondents demand and end to the yearly census- a waste of money, they say, give us the money directly and we will know best how to use it.

Some have relatives, friends, who are dead, or dying, still in squalor, demanding reparations.

Some simply protest your continued wealth, the comfort you live in while so many of your people founder in the streets.

These, scrawled in messy hand on thin paper, cut deeper than the fine-barbed insults of the ruling class.

For all that you are pushing, ever, for more- for more schools, for a minimum wage, for food banks and shelters- you have barely made a dent. Your people still starve, and suffer.

And for all that you try to improve their lot, you live still in the palace. Emily will never know hunger, or fear. Will never be made to flee for her life, will never be forced into work at the Golden Cat. She will grow up well-fed and well-read, and safe.

And standing at your desk, with yet another fair, honest, biting letter open on your desk, you feel as if the whole of Dunwall is pressing down on your young shoulders, feel so much that you would like to take a _break,_ just stop for a moment to _breathe._

And if you stop- you know you will never start again. The slow grind of progress will roll to a halt, and you will be too tired to pick it up again, to throw yourself again against every advisor and aristocrat who comes tut-tutting to your court.

That is how it feels, at least, that day, the sun so hot and the air so wet that you feel too tired even to bother breathing, very much.

And you haven't talked to Corvo, since the fight, near a week ago. You have no one to talk to save young Emily, no one to tell you to keep going, to steady you when you falter and you know-

You _know,_ that you can do this, change things, without help. Without Corvo.

But it is damned _hard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again!  
> Fun fact- i am officially done high school.  
> So.  
> That's bizarre.
> 
> Con/Crit welcome as always!


	8. Chapter 8

It is two weeks and change, before you _really_ talk to Corvo again.

He is always near, of course, as the Lord Protector must be, but speaks to you only with stiff, necessary formality. The cold shoulder you both provide each other serves only to make things more hostile, each snubbed greeting a fresh reason not to apologize.

And so a week goes by, and then two, and then a few days more, the unnatural, funeral-hall silence of the palace reminding you of nothing so much as the days after you father died, the whole staff black-clad in mourning, and you adrift with the world suddenly on your shoulders.

You do not don a black armband, now. Do not deign to wear a veil. Each morning you rise with the sun and read the paper and dress as sharp and polished as you might like, and make sure Emily does the same. There is no reason anyone must know that you are mourning.

And you are still angry, in your grief, so you do not say sorry, and neither does Corvo.

Until, one evening, Emily dozing in her bed, there is a knock on your door.

“Yes?” You call, not half so willing, anymore, to open the door on just anyone.

“Can I-” there is a sound like a cough. “May I come in, Empress?” It's Corvo, voice low and faltering, and you do not stop to think that you are mad before you let him in.

He looks as sharp as ever, his shoes shined, his neckcloth pressed and neat. But there are shadows under his eyes, a bruisey black, and you are sure they mirror the ones under yours, if you were to take off your makeup.

“Ma'am,” he says, uncertainly, half a greeting.

“We're alone, Corvo,” you say, without quite meaning to. “You can call me by my name.”

“Jessamine,” Corvo says, a little softer. “I-” he falters, for a moment, so unlike him, this slender bulwark of a man. He takes a breath and tries again: “I have received word, from the guard. The attacker we apprehended has confessed; we know who sent them.”

You blink, having expected- not an apology, perhaps, but not this. Not just business, after all. “Who?” you say, then remember yourself: “Please, take a seat- do you want something to drink?”

Corvo sinks gratefully into your desk chair, but waves off the drink. His back is still formally stiff, at attention.

“It looks as though it were the Harcourts, and the effort headed by Eve.”

You frown, sitting yourself on the foot of your bed. “Eve Harcourt?”

“A Harcourt only lately,” Corvo says. “Married this last month, previously of the Shaws.”

You let your breath hiss out, remembering; Eve Shaw, blue-eyed, frequently scowling. Always at society events, never quite managing to speak with you directly. And now she has tried to kidnap your daughter. “Well,” you say, at length, “We must arrest her, I suppose.”

“I'll let the guard know,” Corvo says, moving to stand.

“Wait,” you wave him back. “Corvo, please, I-”

Corvo sits- tenser, if possible, hands knotted together in his lap. “I only meant to do my job,” he says, eventually. “And to protect the woman I love,” his voice is very soft, very low. Emily is still dozing in the next room.

You catch your lower lip in your teeth. Consider. “I know,” you murmur, eventually. “I just- cannot abide being treated as though I were made from bone china. I am not so breakable.”

“I know,” Corvo says. 

“I'm more than capable of taking care of myself,” you add, old defensiveness stirring in your chest.

“I know,” Corvo says, “But you don't have to. I'm- no one can go it wholly alone, Jessamine. Not even you.”

A sigh gusts its way through you, half-involuntary. “I know,” you say, barely above a whisper. “And you are- truly, you do not coddle, only I am so used to it-”

Corvo nods, eyes pinched and teary-bright.

You sit in silence, for a while, and then say, “I'm sorry.”

“I am, too,” Corvo says, looking more at the floor than at you, and then abruptly gets up to leave, only to turn back at the door, pacing a while. He settles, eventually, onto your loveseat, looking ever more wretched, looking as pale and run-down as the old salt-faded boats fetched up for salvage in the docks.

“Do you think,” you say, abruptly, “That we might be happy?”

Corvo looks up, sharply, to meet your eyes for the first time that night. He _does_ look tired. Drawn.

“Is it simply- is it not our lot?” You go on, “To be happy?” It is not a thought that has consciously occurred to you before, but now it forces itself to the front of your mouth, demanding to be out.

Corvo shakes his head, a frown tugging at his mouth, thoughtful. “I am” he says, at last, “Happy. With Emily. With you.”

“Even when I act like a boor?” You say, “Even when people try to kill me?”

Corvo smiles a little. “Even so, Jessamine.” the smile tugs a little wry, crooked. “That is, if you are happy when I act like a bull-headed fool myself.”

This pulls a laugh out of you, and you can only nod. “Okay,” you say. “Let's be happy, then. And damn them. Damn the Harcourts and the Shaws and-”

Corvo nods. “As the lady wishes,” he says, with mock-severity, and you laugh again, and reach across the room for his hand.

His pulse is steady and warm against your fingers, even as your own hands shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!  
> Con/Crit welcome as always!


	9. Chapter 9

You- try, after that. The both of you.

And years pass, and Emily grows, and you push the city, relentlessly, towards the future, Corvo a constant, steady presence at your back.

You have a few hairs going gray before you turn thirty, and Corvo grows ever more solemn and quiet, but you are changing things, and you are- happy, even, or something very like.

But something else is growing, in Dunwall.

Something rotting, and twisted, and _sick,_ it rises up from the docks and spreads its dark roots through your city like a cancer.

The rat plague.

First it is a dozen cases, then twenty, then fifty. The sick do not recover. Dunwall's streets clog with bodies, and after the bodies come inevitably, irrepressibly, the rats. They surge through the city near-unopposed, a tide of teeth and filthy fur and bright, beetle-black eyes that shine hungrily from every shadow and sewer.

You try everything.

Every court physician and scientist is set on the task of a cure, and guards are diverted to corpse-collecting, and great clinics are set up, their cots crowded with the dying, air thick with the smell of blood. Bounties are set for rat bodies- a coin per five heads, and the beggars pour in with great sacks of the things, for their meager reward. The dead rats pile up, day-by-day, heaps of rotting fur that stink in the sun and attract flies.

The human casualties pile up faster. All dockworkers, or courtesans, or fishermen- not a noble falls ill, in those early days, but the aristocrats jostle for you to _do something_ , in their simpering way- not find a cure, of course, but perhaps instate a curfew. Perhaps barricade the streets leaving from the lower districts. _Perhaps it would be best_ , they say, _and of course it's horrible even to propose it, but one must be prudent in such times_ , but perhaps it would be best if the lower districts were closed off, completely. Leave those who live there to die- _it is a lost cause, after all, only a matter of time-_ and then clean out the bodies and be done with the plague.

You- do not do that. Of course. Do not dignify the suggestion even with a response. But you fear they are right- not that you should leave most of your city to die so that you and a handful of spoilt politicos may live, but that Dunwall is a lost cause.

That your messy, bloody end is coming,

That it is only a matter of time.

* * *

Emily is nine, when you send Corvo away. There is little hope, you know, that another city has the cure for this plague, but if there is any chance at all, it must be risked.

It's gray, not quite raining but damp, much like the day you and Corvo first arrived in Dunwall.

You are not so old, you know, just barely thirty, but it feels like so _long_ ago, when you and Corvo tumbled laughing onto Dunwall's docks, not yet grown.

Emily is clinging to Corvo's hand, her young face set in a determined scowl. “You won't go.” She says, forcefully. “Send someone else.”

“Emily,” Corvo kneels, gently disentangling his hand, and kisses her on the crown of the head. “I'll be back soon. You mind your mother.”

“I will,” Emily vows, “But only if you stay. Then I can mind you, too.”

Corvo looks up, at you, his face as expressionless as it has always been, lately, but you can read the _fear_ in his dark eyes, the grief.

“Emily,” you say, gently, “Come here. Corvo will be back before you know it.”

Emily looks doubtfully between Corvo and you, small fists balled up in an effort to hold back the tears welling in her eyes. “I'll miss you,” she says, desperately, and the effort of speaking breaks the dam down; tears spill over her cheeks, and her mouth trembles, miserably, even as she tries to look brave.

Corvo lets out a shuddering breath of his own, pulling Emily into a hug, her head tucked under his chin. After a long moment, he pulls back, smiles at her. “Can you be brave for me, Emily?” he says, and Emily nods, sniffling, so Corvo moves to stand up.

“Only-” Emily's voice is thick with tears, but firm. “Promise you'll write, and that you'll come back?” She holds out a pinky, thin shoulders squared.

Corvo's own eyes are dangerously shiny, now, bright with tears, but he nods, and says, “I promise,” and links pinkies with her.

When he lets go, Emily tucks herself against your side and begins to cry in earnest, great sobs wracking her narrow body.

“Be safe,” you say, as Corvo stands to meet your eyes.

“I will, Jess,” he says, softly. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you say, and then he is gone.

* * *

He _does_ write, but he's terrible at it.

Recalcitrant in person, his letters are worse; stiff and formal, and they arrive much-delayed from his sending them, having to travel across the ocean to reach you.

Emily turns ten, her first birthday without Corvo home, and she is a brave girl- strong and sturdy, and not prone to moping, but her eyes well up with tears when no boats show over the horizon, as she blows out her candles.

“He'll be home soon, won't he?” she asks, nervously, only picking at her cake.

“He will, Emily,” you say, hoping.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I just say, in light of E3, that I Disapprove of dishonored 2 Corvo? @Bethesda: Bring back the long hair  
> (I'm super pumped for this game tho)
> 
> Con/Crit welcome as always!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence happens in this chapter! Canon-typical, but figured I'd warn you!

It is, in fact, another six months before Corvo returns.

Emily catches sight of the ship coming noisily up the lock and sprints off, calling for Corvo as she runs.

You have to wait, patiently, in your gazebo, for there are guards about, and servants, and even the spymaster, and it would not do to seem too eager, even if you want nothing more than to race after your daughter and wrap your arms around Corvo and never let go.

The kisses and catching-up can wait until tonight. Until the privacy of your room.

At length, Corvo appears in your sight, looking ragged from the sea, face tan and solemn. It is bad news, then, or he would have told you already. Not that you expected a cure, truly, but-

Corvo bows, stiffly, and you smile, present him your hand. He brushes his lips across your knuckles- as intimate as you can reasonably be in public- and straightens, digging a letter out of his coat.

“Ma'am,” he says, voice raw with so many months abroad, and presents you the envelope.

So there is no cure- that is a blow, to be sure, but an expected one, and so one you can bear.

But the letter, couched in formal, polite terms, carries by far the worse news, unexpected as it is: The other isles mean to lock you out. Form a blockade around Dunwall and trap everyone in the city, allowing neither refugees or merchants through.

They mean to trap you in Dunwall to die, to the last, that they might not fall ill.

It seems Corvo was right, those years ago. Your death did come in an envelope. You look up from the letter, to meet Corvo's grim eyes. “They mean to-”

But something over Corvo's shoulder catches your eyes- a _lack_ of something. “Where have the guards gone?” you say, wary, an unsettled slimy feeling crawling down your spine.

Corvo glances around, too, hand on his sword, and gives a sharp shake of his head. “Get inside,” he says, lowly. “Go. I'll follow you.”

You grab Emily's hand, and the hiss of steel-on-leather sounds behind you- Corvo's sword, flashing dissonantly in the cheerful afternoon sun.

You catch a strange smell- something like ozone and whale oil, and then an assassin flickers to life in front of you, inhuman behind a whaling mask, breath rasping loudly in the sudden quiet.

“Corvo,” you say, voice coming out higher than normal, and Corvo turns, eyes wild.

The thunder of his pistol sounds just next to your head, and the assassin crumples, bullet driving through his ribs.

“Get behind me,” Corvo says, voice raw and urgent, barely audible over the ringing in your ears.

You pull Emily- white and stiff with shock- into the relative safety at Corvo's back, as another assassin flickers tarrily into existence, lunging with his own sword at a distracted Corvo.

Corvo dispatches this assassin, too, handily, parrying once, twice, and then slicing his stomach open lengthwise, the man's bowels spilling red onto the pavilion's white marble.

Emily, sheltered behind you as you are sheltered behind Corvo, whimpers a little, and you tighten your grip on her hand, soothing- “Shh, shh, Emily, don't look, my dear, don't look-” And Emily tucks her head into your side, shaking.

Another assassin appears, and another, and another, and you've seen Corvo fight guards 3-on-one in the practice yards, but these are not guards; the assassins are good, _supernaturally_ good, and this is not practice.

Corvo shoots the first assassin, thrusts his pistol back at you and says, roughly, “reload,” wheeling back on the Whalers with sword drawn.

The Whaler he shot is still standing, if waveringly, blood a dark spreading stain across the stomach of her coat.

Corvo manages to duck harm, for a while, and dispatches the injured assassin, blood spraying crimson and gaudy-bright from the death-blow.

Then Corvo cries out, hoarsely- there is his blood on the ground, now, too, and he's favoring one leg, sword still flashing in the sun but slowing, you think, with exhaustion.

The Whaler who'd hit Corvo goes down, next- he must have opened himself up for attack in return- and you finish with reloading the pistol, the smell of blackpowder acrid in your throat.

Corvo takes the gun, shoots the last assassin point-blank, a spray of blood and bone flashing out in the summer sun.

Corvo drops the gun, panting, and turns to you: “Are you and Emily-”

“We're fine,” you interrupt, “But sit down, for Voidssake, your leg-” Indeed, there's a ragged tear in Corvo's trousers, giving air to a great, deep gash, and dark blood is already soaking though the fabric, sticky and wet.

“We have to get inside,” he protests, but a second later the leg gives out halfway, and Corvo staggers forward, sweat shining over his forehead. You reach, instinctively, to catch him, pulling him back upright, and Corvo takes the respite of your support to tie his neckcloth over the wound- it soaks through almost immediately with blood, but Corvo insists he's _fine,_ and then-

There is that strange, oily harbour-smell, again, stronger this time, all ozone and tar, and a wave of whalers appears, led by an unmasked man.

Corvo lunges, cursing bloody murder, but a press of whalers falls upon him, and the docks smell gets stronger, tarry-black shadows flickering over Corvo's hands, his legs, tying him down with black magic where he's not held down by whalters.

He is forced to his knees, looking fearfully up at you and panting raggedly through his open mouth.

Another two whalers fall upon you, and tear Emily from your side- you kick and claw and lunge at them, but another whaler moves to restrain you, and if you do any damage at all, their faces- covered by those alien-strange masks- don't betray anything. And then they are gone in a cloud of black smoke, and Emily with them.

And the leader, unmasked- a grim, gnarled man- draws his own weapon; a short, brutal sword; ugly but, you're sure, no less deadly for it.

You cannot die- Dunwall needs you, with the plague, it needs you more than it ever has-

but it does not matter.

The assasin does not meet your eyes as he draws his arm back, looking instead blankly over your shoulder, and you look down to find Corvo, struggling vainly against his attackers, eyes fixed on yours.

There is a wet, tearing pain in your gut, and the involuntary _gasp_ that rattles out of your throat feels sticky- there is blood in your mouth, copper and spit washing down over your chin.

Corvo _howls,_ and as one the assassins vanish, leaving him to run unopposed to you, limping a little as he goes.

You don't feel you can get enough breath into your lungs, throat thick and sticky, and Corvo catches you as your legs buckle.

“Jessamine, Jess-” he's saying, frantic, and you take a steadying breath- Dunwall may lose you, but you _mustn't_ lose Dunwall.

“Corvo,” you say, “it's all- falling apart. Find Emily. The city-” a ragged, deep-chest cough rattles up through you, desperately, and the pain in your gut sparks anew. “Dunwall must not fall.”

  
“I won't let it,” Corvo promises, “Jessamine, I love you-”

“I love you,” you say, “Keep my city safe,” and then breathing grows too hard, and you are aware only of the searing in your gut, Corvo's warm hands bearing you upwards. 

Your last thought is a desperate, disoriented prayer, to whoever is listening, for the future of your city.  _Dunwall must not fall._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'yikes' the chapter  
> Con/Crit welcome as always!


	11. Chapter 11

“My, you are an interesting one,” says an oily voice, high and ancient-sounding. “You really would give anything for Dunwall, wouldn't you?”

You are aware of nothing but that slimy voice, and the barest impression of blue light, salt water. “Yes,” you manage, and a thick, eerie laugh rolls to you from all directions.

“ _Facinating,”_ the voice says. “Well. It is too late for you to be my pawn, of course, but perhaps-”

Bodiless, you feel a sudden, searing pain, a strange warping _pull,_ the impression rather than the sight of a great many things writhing in the dark.

“This will do nicely,” the voice says, and you wonder absently who is speaking, and then- _The outsider,_ you find yourself saying, involuntarily, _They fed him to the waves before his voice had finished breaking._

The voice- the outsider- laughs again, full of delight but absent of any warmth, any human light. “ _Well,_ ” he says. “This _will_ be interesting.”

It is like having a new sense, this Knowing, you can see through to the core of people, of places, _know_ them, and the Knowing burbles itself up into speech mostly-unbidden.

Through this knowledge you come to understand what is left of yourself- a scrap of Jessamine Kaldwin clinging back from the void, bound into a bodyless heart, into strange-thrumming wires- a creature of void and Knowing.

You cannot say this.

You can speak only the Knowledge, and only when asked.

A measure of time passes, or does not pass, and then there are voices- the Outsider, again, seaweed-slimy, and-

Corvo. Is he dead, then? He must be, or he would not be in the void, except-

 _They framed him for the Empress's death,_ the Knowledge whispers. _He escaped prison in an old fishing boat._

You try to say something to Corvo- _anything_ \- but you can only cause the heart to beat faster, at his closeness, until it is laid raw and strange into the palm of his hand.

The Outsider gives a pretty speech about your abilities, if not your origin, and Corvo frowns (you cannot see, but you Know, somehow) and gives the heart an experimental squeeze.

 _The void,_ you say, involuntarily, _someday this place will devour all the lights in the sky._

Corvo cries out, hoarsely, and nearly drops you- the heart? The heart. He says, low, voice ragged, “ _Jessamine_?” the heart beats frantically against his hands, but the Knowledge is silent, and you cannot answer.

* * *

When Corvo wakes, you are with him, in the real world. He lays a hand on the heart and searches for answer, directionless.

_What have they done to me?_ The Knowledge hisses, in your voice, and Corvo snatches his hand back, as if burned.

“Outsider's eyes,” he murmurs, and you Know all of the fear and disgust he has for this thing you are become.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sorry for the late update, my prom happened so I was a bit busy!  
> 2\. this fic was inspired by the wiki page that details everything the Heart says, & lemme tell u: yikes.  
> 3\. Con/Crit welcome, etc, thanks for reading


	12. Chapter 12

So. Corvo has become a mercenary, of a sort, hunting down those who worked to topple your rule.

He brings you along on missions- you wonder if maybe he is somehow incapable of leaving the heart behind, if the Outsider will not let him- and he consults you from time-to-time, with a sick sort of fascination.

The Knowledge ever whispers in the back of your mind, and you whisper it in turn to Corvo, when he asks for it.

 _Not so long ago Dunwall was a proud city,_ you whisper, as Corvo _blinks_ across rooftops- you can feel it each time, the strange pull of the void, sickly familiar- like a harpstring vibrating when its sister note is struck.

 _The river rushed in when the barrier broke,_ The Knowledge hisses, _A whole district went dark_. All of whatever is left of you recoils, at that, at the sick and rotting ruins your city so fast became, and you say, _How can it be that I know such things?_ Without meaning to.

Corvo, crouched waiting for a patrol to pass, makes a miserable noise in the back of his throat, and you feel mourning ripple out from him, nauseous and twisted.

* * *

You are not much help with the High Overseer, you fear. The Knowledge twists itself in with your disgust and you spit: S _uch corruption! Such hypocrisy. Make me look on it no more,_ which serves only to unsettle Corvo further.

 _He thinks sometimes of pitching the Heart into the river,_ the knowledge hisses in the back of your mind. _He thinks it might be kinder._

* * *

He brings you with him, too, to the Golden Cat, to wrest Emily from her captors. Corvo inquires after the heart, and the Knowing bubbles up through you: _Few enter this line of work by choice,_ it says, and Corvo's shoulders tense, discomfort and anger coiling in what thoughts of his you can glean.

You can't help but think- with ten years more, twenty, you could have helped these girls. Dunwall _needed_ you, _needs_ you-

 _She used to keep a ragdoll under her bed,_ the Knowledge hisses to Corvo, _a toy from her childhood, but lately she has given it to the girl at the end of the hall. She always looks so sad, even if she doesn't work._

Corvo stiffens, eyes flashing to the door down the hall, inconspicuous, if locked. The heart flutters against his hand, at your eagerness- if Emily is there, if you have led Corvo to Emily, if this sick knowledge has saved your daughter, then maybe-

And she is there. Just where you Knew she would be.

Curled up on herself, on the floor of a filthy room, everything in you _reaches out_ to touch her, to comfort, even as she recoils from Corvo's mask. Corvo's hand comes to brush against the heart, curiously, reflexive, and you hiss: _Poor Emily! Her Childhood is lost! She has become a pawn in the games of men._

Corvo stiffens at your voice, but Emily doesn't seem to hear it, running to embrace Corvo once the mask is off, and you would look away, if you could, from the daughter you have lost for good, even if she is safe, but you cannot turn away from _anything,_ anymore.

 _At night, the sounds of the Golden Cat scare her, and she longs for her mother,_ the Knowledge hisses to you, malevolently.

* * *

The Boyles' party twists your stomach nearly as much at the Golden Cat, for different reasons. The Knowledge deigns to let you hiss your disgust: _Don't be fooled if you hear laughter, or happen upon a smile. There is nothing but treachery, here._

Corvo, to your surprise, laughs, a little unevenly. “You truly must be in there, then, Jessamine,” he says, too low for the party-goers to hear. “I see assassination has not endeared you to parties.” He lays a hand on the heart, and by doing so allows you to say, _The rich still cling to the belief that the plague will only sicken the poor_ with as much acid as you can muster.

Corvo laughs, again, a little melancholy, voice turned tinny by the mask, and you Know, in the way you now do, that he is fighting back tears along with the revulsion that rises in him whenever he thinks of the heart.

* * *

Emily, you are glad to see, is safe at the Hound Pitts even when Corvo is gone, even if the Knowledge gives you full access to her every sorrow and nightmare, dreams of monsters and men with heavy fists, things no child should have to face.

 _She hides her fears,_ you hiss to Corvo, _seeking someone she can trust._

It is not him; you see it, the way Emily fears him, unsure of what really happened the day you died, as if Corvo could truly have killed you, would truly have laid a hand on either of you. But still she fears, and you understand; Corvo is not what he was.

He has become a wildman, a feral thing, all torn fingernails and tattered clothing and a mask with glassy eyes so like those of your killers you might get chills, if masks hid anything from you, anymore. If you could get chills, anymore.

He is still the man you loved- love? Loved, certainly- underneath. He still stays his hand when he can, still fights for Dunwall's future, even if his voice is so _rough_ now, even if he looks like nothing so much as the alleycats you saw on Serkonos, so long ago- sharp and ragged things, winding sideways through the shadows.

 _He remembers the Empress's dying words,_ the Knowledge tells you, slimily. _He fears he will fail her._

* * *

But Corvo bears you to Dunwall Tower easily enough, and when he inquires after the heart you say, _we have both been here before,_ and there is such a swelling of grief in Corvo that it echoes through you for minutes, and even the Knowledge is silent, a while.

“It will be over, soon,” Corvo says, at length, wrestling to keep his voice from wavering, and you manage, through the Knowledge, to guide Corvo to the Lord Protector's audio logs, and expose the man that betrayed you to all of Dunwall.

* * *

It is not over soon, of course, despite the victory.

You Know that the Loyalists plan to kill Corvo, you can feel it, even as you feel Samuel's grief and Corvo's bone-deep exhaustion and Emily's sleepy relief, and you howl to let Corvo know, beat against the walls the Knowledge has set, but Corvo does not ask after the heart, and you cannot tell him.

They poison him. He will not die, you Know, but you see them haul Emily screaming away, see Corvo's body floating down the river, and you _rage,_ as well as you can without anything but the void to hear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no excuse not to have posted this earlier, this whole story has been finished for months. Very sorry about the delay! One a day from now on.


	13. Chapter 13

In the flooded district Corvo consults you as he hangs in the rafters, looking down at the man who killed you.

At Daud. 

You can feel his regret, sour and twisting under the weight of everything he's done. Daud did not _want_ to kill you, he does not _like_ that he killed you, you watch him pace his grungy dockside office and _consider._ The Knowledge coils deep-sea-cold through you, hissingly, _his hands do violence, but there is a different dream in his heart._ You do not convey this to Corvo, whisper instead, _No! There is no turning back from the path he has chosen!_

Corvo blinks down, snatches Daud's keys, retreats to squat again in the rafters, one hand on his crossbow. He consults you, again, and you can feel his indecision as well as you can feel Daud's fearful guilt.

  
_Why have you brought me here?_ You hiss, _am I meant to forgive this man for what he's done?_

Perhaps _you_ aren't, but Corvo does. As soon as he makes up his mind, the future resolves, and you know he is going to leave Daud untouched even before he does.

You can sense, all the way back to the Hound Pitts, Corvo's wanting to kill Daud, his anger and guilt, and even as the rage is still twisting through your fragmented thoughts you love him for staying his hand.

This is the man you loved, the man whose child the empress- _you_ \- had. He is Good, even when you, twisted void-damned thing that you are, would hiss him towards revenge.

And so he saves Emily, hands still clean, and restores her to the throne, and does not kill.

You can see, years from now, the plague cured, Dunwall restored, that future sure enough to present itself to the Knowledge, and to you. The future fogs, beyond that, but now your Emily is safe, on the throne, and Corvo has a chance to heal, to _shave,_ even if his voice stays hoarse and low, and even if Emily's nightmares never fade.

They mourn you- you can feel it, more than they did during the short, bloody war, there is time, now, to mourn, and grieve, and heal.

But they are happy. Emily is young and strong as she was when you were alive, a certain hardness behind her eyes, but she still basks in the heat on the rare sunny day, still pushes willfully back where lessons are involved.

And Corvo- he aches, a dozen ill-healed injuries giving him a limp more fitting a much older man, but if he grieves he is healing from that, too, and safe with the strange ex-loyalists who have become family to him.

You were, at least, _needed_ , during the struggle, your intelligence useful, the Knowledge bearing Corvo out of scrapes and towards his goals.

But now you are tucked in a chest beneath Corvo's bed, and all you can do is watch and Know as life goes on outside, the knowledge ever hissing you things you would rather not hear.

There is an empress on the throne. The plague is cured. Dunwall does not need you, any more, not as you are, and yet you linger, _listening._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just an epilogue after this. Thanks to everyone who stuck on.


	14. Chapter 14

There is an afternoon, after the restoration of Dunwall, where the sun is warm and the water is calm, and Corvo brings the heart with him to the oceanside, lays a hand almost tenderly over the strange, rubbery surface of the thing. 

 _The Rats are fleeing back into the ocean,_ the Knowledge hisses through you. _Men and Beasts both._

Corvo squeezes the heart, again, directionless, and the Knowledge churns through your thoughts, and you say, _it will be nice to finally rest._

Corvo says nothing, for a while, is too unsettled for you to glean his purpose. He thinks, stormily, and you try to enjoy the sun that you cannot feel, and some measure of time may pass- you cannot tell time so well anymore. And then Corvo is decided, and you know:

The last time you see Corvo Attano, he has aged ten years in six months.

He is a ragged, feral thing, even in his fine clothes, and you are a strange unfinished creature, halfway to your grave but bound still by the heart and the Knowledge tied within it. 

“I love you,” Corvo says, roughly, and places his marked hand back over the heart, reaching for the power of the Outsider. There is that strange pull of void, thrumming through you in jarring harmony, and something _twists,_ the sick voice of the Knowledge fading to silence.

 

You feel the hold the heart has on you slacken, and fall away, and you go, finally, to your rest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! This should be my last Dishonored fic until Dishonored 2 comes out.  
> Thanks to everyone who's been along since the start, and thanks to the new readers I've picked up along the way!  
> EDIT: so obv now that dishonored 2 is out we know the heart doesn't get destroyed so i guess this is like a very slight au?


End file.
